Coming of Age

Was in the middle of writing another boring post about my putrid PC, when I suddenly realized my boy would have been twenty-one today. Should have attained his majority, be taking his old man out for a drink about now.

He was a fighter, in his way, just by being. Lived three years; but three years longer than anyone said he would. The first six months were toughest, perhaps: in the beginning every new day was a deadline, in the worst possible way. We'd wake in dread, wonder if he was still with us. Then every day became every week, and every week became every month, until his doctors threw in the towel and stopped predicting anything. By the end, of course, we were thinking him invincible - he'd come through meningitis shining brighter than ever, after all. A stupid cold, it was; out of the blue, that one cold too many.

No consolation, of course, but I'm free to imagine what he would have been, today, on his twenty-first birthday. Free to imagine outside the constraints of time and reality, to imagine whatever magical future I choose.

Here's to ye wee mannie, wherever you are. Big boy now.